A TwoWay Mirror
by WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: "A new trick. They were just trying to fool him again. He would not be taken in by this, he would not." Spock knows he can't have been rescued. It's just another cruel, cruel joke by Captain Kirk of the ISS Enterprise. Sequel to 'Shattered Mirrors'.
1. Chapter 1

**By request, this is a sequel to 'Shattered Mirrors'. If you prefer the ending to the last, you can certainly ignore this. However, it has something of a more hopeful ending. Even if it's, um, not exactly all rainbows and puppies, either.**

**Also, I think I missed a few people answering reviews - my inbox is crazy-confusing. So, if I didn't get to say it, thank you to anyone who reviewed 'Shattered Mirrors'. (Or who will review this, for that matter!) **

**Hope you like it!**

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><p>"Is there any permanent damage?"<p>

The words were quiet. Sickbay was dark, the Gamma-Shift rotation having exited to give the two privacy. There was only one patient, lying silently on a biobed, between the two men in the private room. The readings displayed above the biobed were not the best the captain had ever seen them at, but not the worst, either.

"Physically?" Doctor McCoy paced around the bed, slowly. "Physically, there'll be scars - lots of scars. They also got his system addicted to a few things, but nothing that'll have major effects - he'll have a rough time detoxing, but I'm not too worried about that. He won't be quite as flexible, I imagine, with all that damaged tissue, but even that should subside, given a few months. Won't be winning any beauty contest or finishing first in races, in other words, but with modern medicine I can take care of most of his injuries."

Kirk eyed him. The words gave him some hope, despite the silent figure on the biobed, swathed in bandages. But the sober cast to the doctor's features belayed any possible relief he might have felt.

"And psychologically?"

"Psychologically… I'm not going to lie, Jim, but even for a Vulcan, what he went through was no cakewalk. Frankly, I can't even confirm that he'll be _sane _when he wakes."

The captain exhaled, slowly. "This is Spock we're talking about, Bones. I can't imagine that any amount of physical pain could break him that easily."

"Easily? Hell, no. Jim, this isn't just about physical pain. Don't get me wrong, that would be bad enough, but this is something entirely different. Here, he's been missing seven days. That's horrible enough in itself. But with the time distortion, who _knows _how long he was about that a minute. He was being _tortured _for over a weeks - maybe months - _tortured_ by perfect replicas of his crewmates, who even probably shared some of the same mannerisms. He probably thought he was stuck there forever! And then, yes, there's the physical abuse - sexual abuse - not to mention whatever sick new forms of torture that universe spawned - damn, Jim, I shudder to think what an even _more _cruel version of our reality could cook up! Some of the things people have devised for the mere purpose of _torturing _others…"

"I can't accept that, Bones."

"I can see that. But that mindset isn't going to help him. If you just try and refuse to acknowledge what happened - "

"Who said anything about refusing to acknowledge it?"

Kirk sat by Spock's biobed, agitated, staring at the form of his friend. "I just mean, Bones, that I'm not going to let it destroy him. Whatever trauma he's endured - he'll get through it. I'll see to that."

McCoy sighed. Perhaps he could do it, he thought - but sometimes, Kirk didn't fully realize the impossibility of a situation. He was a person who believed anything could be accomplished if one just tried hard enough - and, as McCoy had learned painfully in the past, life wasn't always like that.

But it was clear Kirk wasn't backing down, so for the moment, he was silent.

Of course, he thought, it was that same relentless, dogged determination that had led to the reclaiming of the first officer - the scientist finally stumbling upon a way into the alternate universe (with help from the scientifically inept captain, somehow - McCoy wasn't going to question it) and Kirk himself devising a way to steal him back from the ISS Enterprise, utilizing a mirroring technique similar to that of their first encounter with the Romulans - quite effective, considering their signs read as identical to the alternate Enterprise.

They'd manage to retrieve him, but none of the rescuers would ever forget the sight of their quietly reserved, pristine first officer lying unconscious on the transporter room floor, matted with blood and a number of questionable substances covering his body. It was hard to tell what parts of him were injured in that mess.

Even as pandemonium roared around him, medical staff shouting and hefting him onto stretchers, the Vulcan had lain silent and still.

Kirk knew he should be on the bridge, really - it was still Alpha Shift, after all, and he had duties to be doing. Quite frankly, though, he wasn't quite sure he could pull himself away.

Spock had been gone a _week, _and the Enterprise crew had no idea if he was even _alive _during that time. For all they knew, their counterparts could have killed him immediately, and none of their efforts would matter. The thought had haunted him during the long wait.

But he hadn't given up then, despite Starfleet's insistences to move on - and now Spock was back. He had to believe they could work past whatever effects the torture had had; it would be too cruel of fate, to deliver him back otherwise.

"Jim - I think he's waking up."

And, indeed, his vitals were slowly rising. The Vulcan twitched on the biobed, then was still.

Hardly daring to hope; "Spock?"

The response was immediate.

Immediately, the eyes snapped open - but before Kirk could even feel relief, the Vulcan had thrown himself off the biobed, falling to the floor in disarray.

Alarmed, McCoy stepped forward.

On the floor, tangled in the bed sheets, the Vulcan had pushed himself into the corner between the bed and floor, and now curled forward, arms shielding his head and his legs bent up to protect his stomach. He was trembling just slightly.

They both stilled a second at the pitiable sight.

"Spock?"

There was no reaction. Exchanging weary looks, they kneeled on either side of him.

"Heart rate's through the roof," McCoy muttered. "But there doesn't seem to be anything else wrong…"

Spock didn't look like there was 'nothing wrong' with him, in Kirk's opinion, but he said nothing.

"_Shaka, shaka, klee-fah -" _Spock shook his head slowly, still in that strange position.

"What?"

"I think that's Vulcan," McCoy muttered. He ignored the rambling mutters that followed. "He might come out of this, Jim - but I'd recommend getting a Vulcan healer to see him."

"I'll see if there's one at the closest Starbase," Kirk agreed quietly. "Spock? Can you hear me? You're back on the Enterprise."

McCoy gave him a distinctly unimpressed look.

"Your Enterprise," Kirk amended. "USS Enterprise, not…" he trailed off. Still, there was no response.

"And you're safe," McCoy added uncomfortably. Kirk shot him a look, calculating, obviously displeased with whatever conclusion he reached.

"If you can't stand to watch this, Doctor McCoy?" the captain asked coldly.

McCoy flushed. "That was uncalled for, Jim! I'm staying right here."

The captain said nothing, turning back to Spock, who had not yet reacted. McCoy quelled his rising anger ruthlessly. Kirk was concerned, that was all; and when he was stressed, with no convenient answer, he could become somewhat - _short _with his friends. It meant nothing.

But, damn it, he _wasn't _sure he could watch Spock like this.

"Spock?" Kirk prodded, gently. He reached out with one hand, carefully, to touch the Vulcan's shoulder.

A chill went up McCoy spine at the reaction to this. Spock shied from the touch, head still hidden, scrunching himself farther into the corner and letting out a low moan, halfway to a whimper.

This wasn't _right._

Kirk, if he felt any similar sentiments, ignored them.

"Spock listen to me. It's Jim - you're fine now, you're back on the Enterprise - "

Despite his earlier words, McCoy felt himself shaking his head.

"No one will hurt you…"

He knew, from his medical scans, that the time had been even longer than what he'd hinted at to Jim - some of the torture had obviously gone on _months _ago. But, even looking at Spock, he could hardly believe it himself. Seven days ago, the morning before Spock had been taken, they'd ate breakfast in the mess hall and McCoy had mocked his ears, and Spock had mocked McCoy's skills as a doctor, and there was some general bickering over stubbornness and logic and emotion that everyone had heard a hundred times over. Perfectly ordinary, perfectly routine.

And now Spock cowered, unable to look at him, a ghost of his former self -

It was mind-boggling. And that said something, because McCoy was not easily thrown off. But he, an experienced physician, couldn't understand how Kirk could look at his closest friend and seem so _calm!_

Jim, strangely, had apparently stopped trying to reach Spock. Instead, he sat by the Vulcan silently, crouched on the floor, and waited.

They were doing it again.

He knew it, but it _hurt _every time, in a horrible, heart-tugging way that none of the bodily torture did. He closed his eyes, pressed them to his knees, and even covered his ears, but he couldn't block out the sounds - the low, concerned murmur of Jim's voice, the gentle beeps of Sickbay. He knew, if he looked up, it would be to meet the concerned gazes of his two friends.

And if he looked up, he would break.

"_Damnit, Doctor, I wanted more time!" _

The first time they had deceived him - fooling him into thinking he had been rescued, and was home - he been swift to learn, through one of McCoy's errors, that he was, indeed, still in the mirror universe. It had nearly destroyed him - had destroyed him, in a way, for it had crippled any of his faltering hope that had survived to that point.

But, nonetheless, some hope must have survived, somewhere - because the next time they had deceived him, he had believed them. Again.

He recalled mirror-Kirk's words from the first trickery.

"_Who knows if we'll manage to trick him again."_

They had managed. They had managed. He had listened to their words in terror, soothing entreaties, pleading voices begging him to understand. He was on the Enterprise, they insisted, _his _Enterprise. He was home. He was safe. Why couldn't he realize that?

He hadn't dared believe, hadn't dared hope - until -

He remembered it, clearly - lying in the ISS Sickbay, turned into a cruel facsimile of his memory, pretending to sleep. Mirror-Kirk had entered, and, putting his hand on the 'sleeping' Spock, had whispered to him all through the night, parting just before Spock 'awoke'.

"_You're safe. Safe. I don't know how we'll get you to see that, but - we will. I promise you, we will." A sad chuckle. "They miss you down in the labs, you know - and Chekov gets unbearably sad at your posts, like he's remembering -" the voice trailed off. "You need to come back…"_

Surely, he had thought, with a horrible, horrible hope, _surely _mirror-Kirk would not sit with him through the night, comforting a senseless, sleeping body? It _must _have been Jim.

Yet, even after ample first-hand experience, Spock had underestimated the cruelty of his captors - because Kirk had been fully aware he was conscious. Kirk had, again, tricked him.

Spock hadn't known you could shatter a soul twice.

Or three times, or four, or five. There had been five incidences in total, each more horrible than the last.

"_You stupid, desperate Vulcan. I can't really believe you fell for it again."_

He had tried every method of suicide available to him, from biting his tongue to throwing himself onto the weapons of others in the gym, or even incensing his captors. But that just seemed to amuse them, and always, always, they ensured that he lived. He always lived.

"_I just don't think they make 'em the same in that universe, Bones, they really don't. Either that or this imbecile's a special breed. I can't believe he fell for it _again_."_

"_Oh, I can."_

But he would not fall into the same trap a sixth time.

"No one will hurt you."

No one will hurt you.

No one will hurt you.

"_Jim - are you really - "_

_CRACK_

_Stunned, Spock stared at the image of his closest friend, struck dumb with shock after the slap._

"_It's funnier every time, Bones!" Mirror Kirk yelled with glee, the earnestness fading from his face. The comforting visage of Jim was gone, a cruel caricature left in its place. "' No one will hurt you', I know - sorry, but, I may have exaggerated - "_

There was silence.

Silence. Kirk was not talking.

How… strange.

But, still, he did not look up. He could imagine the look. It would be full of concern and sorrow and _love, _fierce love, false love, and it would melt every resistance he had, to see that look on the face of Jim Kirk. It would break him again, and then, once more, everything would return to normal -

Silence.

No consolation? No soft murmuring? Odd. No, no, they wanted something different this day, some other form of reaction to entertain them. He mustn't look, he mustn't. He mustn't.

He looked.

And he didn't understand.

Jim was closest, close beside him, watching Spock's face - but instead of that fierce love, only a stubborn set to his jaw that betrayed any thought. His eyes were carefully guarded as he fought to contain whatever emotion was in him, his fortitude that of which any Vulcan could respect. Next to him, McCoy attempted to do the same, but the more overtly emotional man failed; he seemed, instead, ill-at-ease.

His mind ground to a halt.

This… this was different.

Surely not. Surely, surely not. A new trick. They were just trying to fool his again. He would not be taken in by this, he would _not._

He would _not._

He wouldn't…

"Jim?"

The guardedness of Kirk's eyes fell; his eyes widened.

Spock flinched, bracing himself for a blow, the gloating smile -

"_AGAIN, Bones! Can you believe it - "_

- but it never came.

"Spock. Do you - know where you are?"

Spock said nothing.

There was silence a moment.

McCoy, uncomfortable, tried to help. "Spock, here get up on the bed - you'll pull all your bandages like that…"

He trailed off, awkwardly, and was quiet. He didn't make any move to enforce his proposal.

It looked like Jim. But it always looked like Jim.

They were just trying something new - something new -

Kirk saw it, he realized. Kirk knew he didn't believe, not really. Perhaps that was why the charade hadn't ended yet?

"Spock, you're safe. Really."

He closed his eyes again. The Love was peeking back through Kirk's eyes, that false poison that stung his chest, and it _hurt._

"Jim?" McCoy, confused, not understanding.

"He doesn't really believe it, Bones."

No, he didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't.

A hand grasped his hesitantly. It was McCoy, he could tell that much by its roughness, but the tell-tale scar by the thumb was not present. Another part of the lie.

"Bones," Kirk breathed.

Confused at the tone, Spock hesitantly opened his eyes.

Kirk was staring at Spock's hands as though they held the answer to life itself.

Slowly, Kirk met Spock's eyes. Then he grasped Spock's other and, without hesitation, raised it to his own face, pressing it against his skin.

McCoy followed suit without hesitation.

This was an anomaly. This was not how it happened. This was not a part of the game. Kirk's eyes begged him to believe, but that didn't seem right, either.

Mirror-Kirk was a very good actor, but even he couldn't escape his natural personality enough to _beg, _even with his eyes.

"Do it," Kirk said, and he did.

He touched their minds at first, softly, expecting some horrible reprisal - perhaps they were somehow disguised Vulcans, ready to attack his mind at the intrusion, a double invasion. But there was only trust - and two very familiar minds. He plunged in further, going from tentative to desperate, grasping at everything in their minds.

It was Kirk and McCoy. His Kirk and McCoy. And everything, every feeling of concern and anxiety, every thrill of terror at the sight of his emaciated, cowering form, had been real. Unfeigned. Honest and sincere and so full of positive, warm, sheltering thoughts and emotions that he could have _wept _at the release of the past cold.

Perhaps he did, but it was hard to tell. He knew only that he shook so very terribly that he could not speak, his whole body shuddering. McCoy slipped away long enough to find a shot of something, and in his absence the Vulcan clung to Jim as his lifeline, hands grasping along his face and neck and arms with the wild desperation of a starving man. Kirk bore it, clasping the spent body against him and whispering nothing at all. When McCoy returned he was promptly dragged in, as well, but did not complain. And they stayed there, on the floor, their warmth and sweet thoughts his lifeblood, and after months the ashes of his soul, slowly, started to take shape again.

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><p><strong>End.<strong>

**Poooossibly. I know I'm going to regret asking this - anyone still want more? I think this is a nice ending point, but this one has now snared me... meh, we'll see.**


	2. Reflections in a Mirror

**Thanks to all who reviewed to the last chapter! I've decided to just post any sequel-portions onto "A Two-Way Mirror" for simplicities sake, although if I continue this I'd like to continue make it so that chapter can, in itself, be an end, if that makes sense - that is, not something to make people wonder so much about future chapters, because quite frankly I'm horrible at prompt updates and I'm not getting obligated to update another one. However, there will likely be more chapters - no promises, though! Any future chapters will also just be snapshots of the aftermath of "A Two-Way Mirror", although they should be in chronological order.**

**Also, I'd like to thank all those who reviewed and read "A Two Way Mirror", for letting me know your thoughts on it. :)**

**Disclaimer;**** I do not own Star Trek, nor any of the characters, technology, or other ideas therein. Furthermore, I make no money from this piece.**

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><p><strong>Reflection in the Mirror<strong>

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><p>He hated mirrors.<p>

Mostly, Spock felt numb. When he told Dr. McCoy or Captain Kirk that he was Vulcan - that he felt nothing after his ordeal - they refused to believe him. He could not fault them in this; he had shown a horribly emotional display on his return, and the remembrance of the sheer _relief, _and the _sorrow, _could make him shudder. But after that outburst, he felt… nothing.

But he hated mirrors.

It was not the calm of logic that he could claim before his horrible journey to that twisted alternate-universe. Before he had _controlled _his emotions; now, they did not seem present -

(but he hated the mirrors)

- and no one would believe him.

It had been only three days since his outburst, and he remained in Sickbay, in a private room. Kirk visited as often as he could, lingering as far as his duty's constraints would allow. He tried to coax Spock into speaking.

Spock, seeing no reason not to oblige, managed with his rasping voice to relate the main goals of the Other-Kirk and Other-McCoy and Other-Spock, which, as far as he could tell, had been simple and indulgent amusement. After deciding that he was not a threat, they limited the questions and had mostly escalated to torture; occasionally, he was subject to experimentation, mostly by Other-McCoy, but sometimes by Other-Spock. He had told them nothing.

Kirk interrupted him a few times, with strange, probing questions, but finally listened instead, patiently recording his words for the report to Starfleet; when Spock had finished his dry recitation of pertinent events, he asked to know about Spock's personal experiences.

"I do not see how that is necessary, Sir."

And he didn't. And he didn't want to talk about it, either, because when his thoughts strayed to reminiscing, to considering the event in anything but cold analysis, a strange chill would seize his chest, and his arms would shake, and his heart pound, and his breaths grow short. But he would push away the thoughts, and it would stop, so everything was fine. Except the mirrors, anyway.

He flinched when he was touched; it was automatic, instinctive, and when it happened they looked at him with pity and were cautious and condescending. But there was no fear, really, and if he couldn't quite meet their eyes and spoke too softly and in monotone that was just something he was now accustomed to and most certainly did not represent fear.

McCoy said he was still shocked by the return - that everything would sink in over time. It was a defense mechanism, he said. Spock wasn't sure what 'it' referred to, but Kirk would nod in understanding when McCoy said this, and he did not ask.

But whatever his physical reactions, and despite the chill weight that grew in his chest, he felt nothing. Nothing.

Except when he looked in the mirrors.

The mirrors. The mirrors were something evil; they were something that had changed, because the mirrors were not like this in the home-universe. Mirrors should not fill him with dread, or make that chill weight turn into a stone that would bend his knees and make his body tremble and shudder and all reason flee. Everything else had become _right, _but the mirrors were evil.

Except, he retained enough logic to realize that this was not true. The mirrors couldn't be evil. Mirrors were objects, simple, man-made objects. 'Evil' was such a subjective term, and anyway, how could an inanimate object be termed 'evil'?

The mirrors were the one thing he tried to avoid since returning. That was not hard, because it was difficult to even move and he was, after all, confined to Sickbay. But there was a mirror in the bathroom, and he knew that, if he desired it, he could look into that mirror. But he did not - at first.

But something demanded it of him. Just as one might pick at a wound to study the pain, or investigate the sound of a deadly animal in the forest, so he was morbidly curious about the Mirror. And so, five days after his return, when the nurses had left, he managed to slip into the Sickbay bathroom and finally looked into the mirror.

It would have been a devastating sight, in any circumstances. Even from shoulder-up, the view was simultaneously pitiful and grotesque. Sharp bones protruded from the shoulders, making the thin Sickbay outfit hang off his frame. A thin neck shuddered as he breathed weakly, obviously tired with the simple and fated task of holding up the head attached to it. The face, however, was the most shocking; skin stretched tightly over bones that could cut glass, two hollow, dead eyes peering out from deep sockets; a lack of fat had taken the usual substance from the areas around the eye, and so they appeared huge, bulging - blank orbs that reflected back a myriad of horrors. Greenish scars flecked down his face, chiseled dents in stone, with a mass of deep scars hovering over and around the right eye, where he had barely avoided being blinded. A chemical burn had partially eaten away flesh on the left jaw, and remained an ugly, mottled yellow, raised and charred and well able to make the sternest stomach cringe away. And, on one side of his head, a pointed ear - the stereotypical mark of a Vulcan - had been hacked away, leaving only a tiny protrusion around a hole in the side of his head, the inner ear. His hair, or what was left of it, had lost its luster, and flecks of gray - the result of stress and trauma - were evident. Longer, it stuck to his head as though it, too, had lost all life, and the skull-like features of his face seemed even more pronounced.

He looked at this mutilated, twisted face - and saw none of it.

Instead he saw cold brown eyes, lit with some fiendish fire from within, and he saw, in his mind's eye, a beard stretching over the jaw, lips forming a sardonic twist, and the shoulders reaching up to grasp -

And then the mirror was gone.

His hand throbbed, and was wet. Blearily, he sank to the ground staring at it, cradling the appendage automatically as it wept blood that trailed down to stain his clothes.

There was a sharp rap on the door. "Spock? Are you alright?"

"_Commander Spock, how's the prisoner?"_

"_Recovered sufficiently for your purposes, Captain, if that is your meaning."_

But, no, _he _was Spock.

"_We're not so different from your friends, are we, Spock? I saw it in their eyes, in your universe…"_

"Spock?"

"_I saw it…. Oh, you all hid your natures very well, with all your etiquettes and social niceties and your silly rules - but the _real _desires were right there, if you knew to look for it. The animal lurks in all of them - even you. Lust, murder, a desire for anarchy and destruction, for glory and power and obedience, for the veneration of his fellows - they wanted the notice of others, but let me tell you, they would long to kill their shipmates if it benefited them._

"_You all just hide it better._

"_Whatever you accuse us of - at least we're honest."_

"Spock? Someone get this door!"

"_The Vulcans of your world are not so different from ours. It is in our blood, this want, this need - you cannot lie to me - "_

"_It is in you…"_

The door opened, revealing McCoy - but it was _not _McCoy. It was a shade of McCoy, with dark eyes and a hard, scarred face, and a bloodied scalpel, ready to rain down on him for trying to flee -

And then he blinked, and the image was gone, and McCoy was kneeling by him with concern, trying to staunch the blood and asking if he was aware of where he was.

He wasn't so sure anymore.

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><p>"Flashbacks can be… expected. It's difficult at this point, Jim, to really say how much the experience affected him. He's only been back a few days - and most of that unconscious."<p>

Kirk looked at him. "And do you think he'll be able to return to duty after this?"

It sounded a callous question. McCoy knew otherwise. "I like to think so… but I won't lie, Jim. I can't guess the effects this will have on him." He pursed his lips. "Normally, Starfleet would immediately recall an officer who'd been captive for large stretches of time… make him submit to tests before returning… but, even knowing he was gone longer than a week, it's hard to really… _understand _that concept. They'll treat this as though he were with the enemy, well, a week." He sighed. "Which, in itself, could still be extremely traumatizing, of course. But in a way, that helps."

"Helps?"

"It means that they won't kick up a huge fuss over the time, but that a few scenes like this one are understandable; so long as he doesn't get violent, we might be able to swing this around. It'll take a few weeks to get him physically able, anyway, and by then hopefully we'll have made some progress on the mental… issues, and he could return to work without any problems with the 'fleet."

Kirk was silent for a moment. "…Bones. That's all very good and well, but, aside from being _permitted _to work… Do you think he _should? _Much as I want Spock to stay, if it's detrimental to the ship - "

"He's worth a risk."

"Yes, he is," Kirk agreed. "He's the best first officer in the fleet, and invaluable as science officer - and you know I'd fight to keep any of my people aboard. But that doesn't answer the question."

"Because I _can't _answer the question - not yet. But… if it helps, I do _predict _that he'll be ready." A glint appeared in McCoy's eye. "Green-blooded bastard's too stubborn to stay down long."

"Now _that _is what I want to hear."

But, in his mind, he wondered.

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><p>He had been in denial.<p>

Even after the first breakdown, he realized now, he had been slow to assimilate everything.

It still felt like he was back there. It was impossible to believe that he was _home, _whatever proof. When a nurse entered, he still half-expected a dark sneer to twist their face, expected unbearable pain whenever McCoy injected a hypospray. Even his own reflection disgusted him, and he would feel shadowy whispers over his skin, in his mind…

But that was it, wasn't it? These people, his friends - they were all mirror-images of the tormentors. In another reality, in another set of circumstances, Kirk would send him to the agony booth, and McCoy would strap him down to test out poisons and examine the Vulcan body. Statistically speaking, every possible scenario of life existed in one or more of the endless multiple realities that supposedly existed - but that did nothing to make the first-hand experience any less shocking.

It was not logical. He could no more expect his colleagues to be barbarians because their counterparts were, after all, then insist that the barbarians were compassionate as his friends somewhere inside. Neither supposition was logical. He needed to view each separately, objectively, and he tried to do so, but he wondered.

In some ways, those of both universes had been very similar. He recalled the shock of entering his own counterpart's quarters for the first time, and being struck by the similarities. Every detail, from the small fire-holder to the antique weapons, were just as he remembered them. It was a small thing, meaningless; a similar taste of aesthetics meant nothing. Except they were _exactly the same, _and if they shared that much, what other character traits were ubiquitous?

What else was hiding in him?

Yes, that was the crux of it. He couldn't still the niggling thought that those of this universe were simply hiding their perversions behind a polite social façade. They seemed suddenly shallow, guarded to his eye, polite and courteous because that was the way of survival here - but how was he to know for certain that the bloodlust was gone from them? Perhaps it merely awaited the right moment to strike - and if so, what did that say about _his _character?

It was useless to wonder. He would never find a satisfactory conclusion. But the thoughts would not leave.

One question, more persistent the rest, troubled him even as he tried to sleep.

_If I had been born into that universe - who would I be?_


	3. Pieces of the Mirror

**Sometimes I wonder at myself for thinking this stuff up...**

**Thanks to all reviewers, past and future; my email is a mess and I check it pretty sparsely these days, so typically I find reviews too late for it to worthwhile right to answer reviews (you probably wouldn't even remember the story by the time I read them), but I do appreciate them nonetheless and seriously consider all comments. I do apologize for the time intervals between posts (I'm sort of terrible, I acknowledge this).**

**Hopefully I'll write more of this soon, but I know better than to make promises by now.**

**Disclaimer; I do not own Star Trek, nor any of the characters, technology, or other ideas therein. Furthermore, I make no money from this piece.**

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><p><strong>Pieces of the Mirror<strong>

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><p>Technically, Commander Spock was ready to be released.<p>

Not released to _duty, _certainly. It had only been three and a half weeks since his return from the alternate-universe, and the long-term damage sustained there mandated a long recovery. He would need further physical therapy, rest, and so forth for a while yet. But modern medicine was a fantastic thing, and he _was _capable of maneuvering throughout the ship on his own power. Extreme fatigue and weakness, along with lingering chronic pains, were the worst issues - but his condition was stable, and it was encouraged for patients to be released to their quarters after a certain length of time, if possible.

Physically, he was still in terrible condition - but he didn't need to be a stellar athlete to move throughout a starship. No; the real issue was _mental._

It sounded almost _taunting, _to say that of a Vulcan. But it was true. Though he had only received one 'flashback', the psychological effects were still apparent in his every breath. McCoy was leery of releasing him to interact with the crew, who could unknowingly trigger another scene.

But he also knew that Spock needed to do so at some point - and better have the flashbacks now, relatively soon after his return, than later when Command would question his fitness for duty.

So, he released Spock.

Kirk was by his side when Spock left Sickbay. When the two ensigns walking by froze in their walk, he glowered at the two until they remembered themselves and began walking again - twisting their necks as they went by, apparently transfixed at the horrible visage of their XO.

Spock pretended not to notice, and Kirk, likewise, said nothing.

They walked a slow, out of the way path to the Mess - Spock had declined the offer to go immediately to his quarters, uneasy as he remembered the resemblances between his and that of the alternate caricature of himself. Kirk seemed reluctant to press him.

On their walk the two passed a certain Lieutenant Fellows, who had the tact to keep his eyes firmly ahead, sparing only a polite nod and a brief widening of his eyes in involuntary reaction to the sight of Spock.

This time, indeed, it was Spock whose walk stuttered.

_"Think this one's a mutt, too?" Fellows sneered._

_"Yeah, McCoy confirmed him - papered mongrel, this one."_

_A contemptuous kick sent Spock reeling; he fell to the ground, gasping for breath, struggling to pull himself away on emaciated arms that trembled under the weight of his bones. He'd just managed a hand-and-knees position when a hand clutched at his hair, baring the Vulcan's neck with a savage twist._

_"Know if he bleeds green, too?" Fellows asked._

_"Sure 'nuff."_

_"Beating up a Vulcan," Fellows wondered._

_"And one that looks like the slave-master himself," his companion crooned._

_A stinging backslap, and then another swift kick left him curled around his abdomen, vision fading in and out._

_"Captain won't be happy if we kill him._

_"Or the Commander if he loses his fucktoy," Fellows snickered. "Not that this one looks like he'd put up enough of a fight to enjoy."_

_"Eh, Vulcans," the other dismissed._

_"Think the captain would let me play with him later?" Fellows asked suddenly._

_"Oh, probably..."_

_[The captain had]._

Spock kept walking, fighting to ignore the memories. Kirk had noticed him falter, and and watched more carefully, which didn't help.

The Mess was much worse than the halls. It boasted at least two dozen crewmen, all chatting amiably or playing cards in some corner until the senior offices walked in. All at once the sound was sucked out of the room, quicker than vaccuum, and every eye was trained on the doorway.

More specifically, on Spock.

_"A vegetarian!" Kirk crowed. "What kind of dandies are you in that Universe? We're not coddling you _here, _that's for sure._

_An ensign upended a pail of bloody, mashed meat in the middle of the well-trod Mess floor. _

_"Eat up," said Kirk._

"Sit down, I'll grab the trays," said Kirk lightly. "Any preferences?"

Spock shook his head, slowly.

Taking the hint, a muted conversation arose, faint and distracted; cards changed hands randomly, the fortune of more than a few players changing dramatically. No one really noticed, or cared.

Spock himself shuffled stiffly to the closest empty table, lowering himself with the aid of a shaking hand clenched on the table-top. Even the effort of walking so far had exhausted him.

The stares really weren't helping.

_"Fourteen days. Too long, even for a Vulcan - _especially _for a mutt like you. McCoy says you're starving, you know."_

_Spock was silent._

_"We thought you might appreciate some diversity," said Kirk. "Ensign?"_

_Chekov ambled over, holding a plastic cage marked for Sciences._

_In that cage were two white rats - dead._

_"Since you're having trouble feeding yourself, I thought we might help," Kirk explained graciously._

_Security ensigns pinned down his arms. Others around the room, watching casually, jeered; this was entertainment for them, grand entertainment. According to McCoy, morale had gone up nine percent since his arrival..._

_Chop, chop, _chowck. _Furious chopping, hacking, and messy squelches were heard as Spock was pinioned on his back. Starvation had left him weakened, but at two weeks from his capture he still held the sparks of hope, and he bucked and writhed like an eel under the cursing security, without avail._

_Chekov came back into his line of sight, a bloody clump of wet red meat and stained fur clutched in one hand as a guard pried open his mouth._

_"Let no one say we aren't hospitable," Kirk declared. "No one goes hungry on my ship."_

Kirk placed a tray in front of him, then sat by Spock's side. Spock stared at the replicated Plomeek soup blankly.

"That alright?" Kirk prodded.

_"I believe this dish is vegetarian - perhaps it is more to your taste?" enquired the bearded Spock._

_Spock looked at him with disbelief - then scrambled away, writhing in pain and trying not to betray himself with a scream as half a gallon of boiling Plomeek soup was thrown to scald his shoulders._

_"I think he preferred the meat," observed McCoy._

" - Yes. Thank you."

They ate in silence.

Spock couldn't stomach much; even the relatively bland Vulcan fare turned his stomach. But he waited until Kirk had finished, and both rose.

"...Gym?" Kirk suggested. "McCoy's exercises..." He trailed off.

Spock could not accurately convey how much he did _not _want to revisit the gym, but all alternatives seemed worse; he nodded out of pure reflex, and regretted it immediately, but did not dare raise his doubts.

So they continued to the gym. As they left, and the doors slid shut behind them, Spock's keen ears caught snatches of the conversations that broke out in the Mess.

"My god, can you believe it - "

"How awful - "

"His _ears - "_

"Poor bastard - "

"He looked so _small - "_

"Should he be out of Sickbay?"

"How long was he gone?"

The entrance to the gym was much a repeat of the Mess. The recollections were just as unpleasant.

_"Target practice, men!" Giotto barked. "Hit the Vulcan - nonfatal wounds, or McCoy will be after your blood next._

_"Lets try practicing for low tech worlds - pick up a spear."_

Weight machines - running mills - the combat area...

_"A special game tonight! First one to cut yourself a Vulcan ear will get a day off. Daggers or butterknives only - three days off if you can take it with a butterknife..."_

Mirrors, so the crew could examine their postures and movements for fault...

_Spock pulled hopelessly against his bonds - a token protest - then sagged bleakly, staring at his reflection from his prone position on the floor, insides going cold at the sight of the line behind him._

_"How many people get to say they've fucked a Vulcan?" A lieutenant taunted. "No cozy brothel rooms here, though - you lot better keep your cock in if your bits ain't big 'nuff to make this 'un scream."_

And, blessed Other, the crew themselves -

_"Wonder if Vulcans can cry - "_

_"I'll use his fucking blood for paint - "_

_"Look, look, I plucked off his nails - "_

_"Has a real set of lungs, doesn't he?"_

_"Torture's a fine way to end a bad day, isn't it?"_

_"God, this thing never gets boring - "_

_"Watch how he tries not to scream - "_

Spock only waited until most of the room had at least pretended to stop paying attention, then said, "...Perhaps I will just retire, after all."

Kirk seemed entirely unsurprised. "Alright. I'll walk you there."

It was rather unnecessary to clarify that point; he seemed quite determined to hover over Spock. Pacing the painfully familiar route back to their quarters, a trickle of growing unease started mounting. Kirk himself seemed aware of it, on some level, his eyes tightening, lips drawing to a thin, worried line. But he said nothing; Spock thought, far from the first time, that he was truly fortunate to have a friend who understood him so well.

Kirk seemed uncertain, for a moment, if he should follow Spock inside; then, decisively, "I'll see you tomorrow - sleep well."

"And yourself," Spock murmured, automatically. The doors slid shut, and he was alone.

Alone, in darkness. Alone, in a room that reeked of old torments. He exhaled, slowly, breathing deep, and slowly went forward, stopping to stare at the scarlet sheets covering his bed - remembered having his back to it, his front, while a heavy weight pressed down on him, hot breath puffing against his ears, cruel fingers burning, seeking, tearing -

He methodically tore away the sheets, then curled on the bare bed in full uniform. He stared blankly at the next wall, breathing deep, eyes glowing through the cold night without closing.

Maybe the memories would fade in time, but for now their shadows lingered, plucking at his skin with icy whispers of times left behind, known only to him - a world that no one else could conceive of, and that existed, for all intents and purposes, solely in Spock's mind and memory. Was that insanity?

One day all the horrors of that time might fade, in a decade or a century, and be something remembered distantly or recurring in the darkest of dreams. For now, though, he remembered, and must endure.

* * *

><p>"Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives."<p>

_-William C. Dement_


	4. Patchworked Mirrors

**Disclaimer; I do not own Star Trek, nor any of the characters, ideas, technologies, or other materials within.**

**Thanks to all reviewers! Sorry about the wait. I haven't been writing lately, because my laptop broke, but apparently I finished this chapter just prior to that and forgot about it. Oops? So, small update!**

**Patchworked Mirrors**

* * *

><p>"Doctor, I am merely presenting fact. It is acknowledged that traditional human methods of psychological examination are typically ineffective on Vulcans; we are <em>always <em>considered sociopathic and unstable by human measurements." Dryly; "It could be considered rather specist, actually."

McCoy scowled. "You're not getting out of this that easy. And I don't want you _examined. _Starfleet will allow you to go back to duty without any official evaluation - thank lord for small mercies - on the recommendation of myself and the captain. But they're requiring that you talk to a therapist, twice weekly, for that time - and the therapist is given full power to offer a differing recommendation if you refuse to talk. You already have a foot in the door, don't be stupid and make them yank it back out."

"I do _not _need a human mental doctor telling me what I _'feel', _nor demanding that I share or act on any nonexistent emotion," Spock said icily. "Such visits can only be counterproductive."

"Come on, Spock, what _harm _can it do?" McCoy cajoled.

_"It won't kill him," McCoy said with a bark of laughter. Green blood spurted out from the left side of Spock's chest in shuddering pulses as a nurse tried to staunch the flow. "Bastard's heart is where the liver should be, just leave it. Actually - where's the salt?"_

"Humans consistently surprise me in their creativity," was all Spock said.

"Well, sometimes I agree with you - but I think this will help."

"We disagree very often, Doctor."

"Yes, but as the medical health professional, I think in this case I win. You're talking to her, that's final."

* * *

><p>"...and I swear, everything you tell me will be entirely confidential," the woman finished seriously.<p>

_That should not be an issue, _Spock thought. _I mean to tell you nothing._

Of course, coming off as entirely closed-off would only send a bad message to Starfleet. But whatever strange use humans made of this profession, Spock was _not _examining past his mental walls to recount his most personal _emotions _for this woman to examine.

"Perhaps you could begin by talking about your first days aboard the ISS Enterprise?"

He was _not._

The uncomfortable silence stretched on. "Or perhaps the events leading up to your capture?" The woman - who wanted to be known as _Teresa - _asked.

Silence.

"...Alright," the woman conceded. "I thought you might appreciate a direct approach, but. We don't have to start there. Why don't you just tell me about yourself?"

Spock finally looked at the woman. She had a gentle but clearly pasted-on smile, calculating dark eyes, and was twirling her brown hair around one finger in a way that would clearly look unassuming and non-threatening to the average human male.

Humans.

The room was clearly meant to be welcoming as well, bypassing the typical pastel or sterile-white coloring of a Starbase for something in-between, a room of dark earth shades intended to feel relaxing, comfortable. Again, that applied more to humans than to Spock, who might as well have been in an office on Qonos for all the 'familiarity' the room could offer.

_"Fair fight, I think!" The security chief declared, gesturing to the half-conscious Spock. "He has the experience with lirpas, after all. Must feel like home." So he thrust a half-rotted lirpa at Spock, who stumbled, and they fell on him - _

"...Commander," said the woman finally. "You need to talk to me. Really, it's not that hard - and it's the only _logical _thing to do, under orders," the woman wheedled.

"If you attempt to argue logic with me, you will not appreciate the outcome," Spock deadpanned.

"Likely not. But I'll try anyway. Why are you _against _telling me anything?"

"I am fully capable of sorting out, interpreting, and deciding on the best course of action based on recent experiences. The implication that I need professional help to do so is both offensive and illogical."

Teresa just kept up that vague smile. "Commander, I understand your anger - "

"No, you do not. Especially as _I do not feel anger."_

The last words were bitten out sharply, and the therapist hesitated, eyeing him dubiously. "...Of course not," she finally agreed, diplomatically. "I am just trying to help, Commander - "

"I do not _require _help - "

"And as long as the Enterprise is stationed at this starbase, Starfleet will expect regular sessions," she continued, ignoring him. "I'll probably end up assigned to your ship before the week is out, so we might as well get used to one another. And you need to speak. About anything at all, really. Ramble to me about whatever you like - your latest project, maybe. We can get to the mission later."

"That is even more frivolous. Your job and function are not helped in anyway by gaining personal information about myself - which I am in any case not inclined to give out."

"It wouldn't make you feel more comfortable if got to know each other?"

"No," Spock said flatly.

The doctor considered him for a long moment. Then, abruptly, she straightened; her eyes narrowed, and Spock thought, _now she will try a new tactic. _He was right, of course.

"Commander, you really don't have a choice in this," she declared. _You tell a prisoner that they are helpless to engender trust? _Spock wondered. "If you don't speak to me, I'll be forced to file a poor recommendation with Starfleet. We both know you _will _talk, if only to protect your job. If it happens in this session, well, we might be able to accomplish something before you leave. Either way, you might as well get it over with."

Teresa folded her hands over her lap, gazing at him coolly; a clear challenge to pick apart her logic. Maybe she thought the argument would lead to something. He could do so with ease, of course, and have her humiliated and torn by the end of this session. But he _would _have to return, she was right in that regard.

_Why not speak, indeed?_

"Very well." Spock considered the doctor coolly; she stiffened in expectation. "In the alternate reality, I met you."

The doctor looked interested despite herself. "Oh? And what was that like?"

"You were a torture expert - adept at understanding the psychology of prisoners and finding the most efficient methods of extracting their secrets," Spock said - and then he couldn't stop himself. "You often stood in the corner of the room directing security on how, precisely, I could be most effectively cut open to maximize pain, incoherency, and mental strain." Teresa had gone pale. "You told them the most mentally damaging and demeaning applications of long-term torture. You narrated precisely what every psychic stimulus, sexual violation, and physical torture would be most painful, humiliating, traumatizing - is that what you wanted to hear, Doctor?"

Teresa said nothing.

"You were especially fond of fire," he added. " - Is that true in this life as well?"

He was maliciously gratified to see her conceal a wince.

Teresa took a deep, shaky breath, and tried to steel herself. Spock, watching, saw her fail to do so. Was it wrong to feel triumph?

Needless to say, the session went downhill from there.

* * *

><p>McCoy came up to Spock the next day. "Commander, you wanna tell me why the psychiatrist assigned to you handed off your case, vandalized her heater and everything flammable in her quarters, requested personal leave, and has <em>starting seeing another therapist<em>?"

"Not particularly," Spock replied evenly.

"...Considering she was the only person on base qualified _and_ given enough clearance to talk to you, Starfleet has decided you can bypass the psychiatrist. But it's highly recommended you speak to someone next time we're around a qualified officer."

"Which may take a long time."

"Probably." McCoy glared at him. "What exactly did you _say _to that poor woman, Spock?"

"She asked me to talk. So I did."

And it was the truth.

_You can not even handle words, _Spock thought, recalling his session - mostly consisting of lies - with the woman. _How can you help me overcome reality?_

He had no regrets.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews are love?<strong>


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